An Eye For An Eye (18 page)

“You’re full of surprises,” Patty said as she leaned into Richter. They walked hand in hand, following the path behind the condo through the woods. Almost midnight, impulsively they had climbed out of bed and set out for a stroll. The night air was relatively warm, and the earthy smells of spring wafted through the air. The sky was bright with the half moon, and they could see the new ferns on the forest floor waving in the mild breeze.

Richter’s text had surprised her and he had showed up, just as he had promised, at eight o’clock. She had dinner waiting and, after they’d had a pleasant meal and split a bottle of wine, they’d made love. She had fallen asleep immediately afterwards, content to be in his arms. But she had woken an hour later, sensing something was wrong, only to find him staring at the ceiling.

“How’s the arm?” she asked as they walked around a bend.

He flexed it, holding it above his head. “Not bad,” he said. “Just slower than I thought it would be.”

They continued walking in silence. Patty occasionally stole a glance, trying to read his mood.

“Things are bad?” she asked, knowing she was treading on delicate ground.

He was silent a moment. The call of an owl floated across the air.

“Well, for one,” he said, drawing out the suspense, “I missed you.”

She leaned in, “I missed you too,” she responded as she wrapped her arms around him. 

“Anything else bothering you?” she asked tentatively.

He was quiet again for a moment.

“I think the attack in Mexico is just the beginning,” he finally said as they crossed a small wooden bridge. A stream gurgled below them. Patty nodded but said nothing, her instinct telling her that he needed to talk.

“We have no credible evidence, but my gut tells me there’s something there.”

Patty knew he was talking about his sixth sense, something he had told her many cops possessed, an ability to feel the danger that was around the corner. They walked quietly for a minute before he spoke again.

“I think the next attack is going to be here. Somewhere in the U.S.” He was quiet for another minute before he let out a sigh. “Look, the last thing I want to do is worry you. The reality is we face threats every day—Islamic terrorists, right wing militias, Iran, North Korea—the public just doesn’t know it.” He paused. “And it’s my job to sort through all of those and figure out which ones are real, which ones aren’t, and what we need to do.” They continued walking as a dog barked somewhere off in the distance. “When I was in the Secret Service and even in the FBI, I thought I’d seen it all.” He shook his head. “But now…” his voice trailed off. “And I’m only an advisor. I can only imagine the burden of having to make the decision.”

Patty knew he was referring to President Kendall. They continued walking in silence.

Sensing he was done, she pulled on his arm, turning him, and they began walking back towards the condos.

“Know what I think?” she asked playfully after a moment.

“What?”

“I think I should visit you in Washington next weekend.”

He hesitated. “What if something happens and I get tied up in work? I’d hate for you to come all the way down and me not be there.”

“I’m sure I can find something to do. Besides, we’ll still have the nights,” Patty answered as she squeezed him. “Right?”

He grinned. “I sure hope so.”

Bobby Fleming glanced at the clock while he waited for the light to change. Was there enough time, he wondered. He could be a few minutes late, maybe fifteen, and no one would say anything. And if anyone asked, he could blame it on traffic. Besides, today was a slow day. He only had one more run scheduled in the afternoon. His mind made up, he pulled out his cell phone and pressed a number, preset to speed dial Tina. She wasn’t his girlfriend, not exactly. But whatever she was, he certainly enjoyed the benefits.

“Hey, babe. It’s me. You free?”

He heard a yawn, then, “I thought you had to work today.”

Her voice was thick with sleep, and quite likely, he suspected, a hangover as well. She’d been out late again last night.

“I’m working now. I just made a run, but I might have some time to stop by and pay you a visit before I head back to the shop.” He grinned at himself. “You know, just to say hi.”

She laughed. “Honey, you always want to do a lot more than just say hi.” There was a pause. “How much time do you have?”

“Forty-five minutes. Maybe an hour.”

He heard a laugh. “Just enough time for a quickie, huh?”

He grinned. “Hey. What can I say? I miss you.”

There was a pause and he heard some rustling, then: “I’ll tell you what. I’m hungry and I need to take a shower. Stop by the deli on the way and grab me a sandwich. You know the one I like, with the cheese?”

He laughed. “Sure. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Thanks, Bobby,” she purred. “That should give me enough time to get ready. But that doesn’t leave us much time. You better hurry.”

As he hung up, he heard a honk behind him and realized the light had changed. He eased the van forward as he calculated the quickest way to Tina’s apartment. He glanced in his side view mirror then pulled into the left lane and turned at the next light.

Sixteen minutes later, he parallel parked in front of Tina’s building. As he hopped out, sandwich in hand, he hit the button on the key fob and heard the chirp as the doors locked. He glanced quickly at the van, at the new logo for Billings Medical Devices on the side.
The future of medicine…now,
the tagline proclaimed, followed by an artist’s depiction of an atom. He wasn’t sure how much the company had paid some marketing firm for that design, but whatever the price, it had been too much.

He shook his head. Anyway, he had more important things on his mind at the moment, he thought with a grin, as he pictured Tina waiting for him upstairs. As he mounted the steps to her building, he didn’t notice the white truck pull into the space behind him.

“Passport, please.”

Terry Fogel smiled as he handed his documents to the immigration officer and then watched casually as the woman flipped through the pages, past the numerous entry and exit stamps from around the world. All were expert forgeries, of course, and he was certain they wouldn’t raise any suspicions even to her trained eye.

The officer studied the photo, and Fogel smiled again when she glanced up to scrutinize his face. She wore the perpetual scowl of someone who sees hundreds of faces each day, never quite trusting a single one. He wasn’t worried. With dark brown hair now, instead of his natural ginger, and wearing a pair of colored contacts, he looked sufficiently different than whatever picture they might have on file.

“Did you visit any other countries besides Brazil?”

“No,” he responded with another smile. “Just Brazil on this trip.”

She grunted as she slid his passport though the bar code reader.

While he waited, Fogel thought about the day ahead. From the airport, he would catch a cab to the hotel. After checking in, he would take another cab to Walmart, where he would buy several phones—prepaid models that didn’t require that you provide any information. He would pay in cash. Then he would call his contact again. The man, someone he had worked with many times in the past, was confident that by the time Fogel arrived, he would have everything that he needed.

The officer looked up and Fogel smiled again as she handed his documents back.

“Welcome home.”

Bobby left Tina’s building, humming a tune. He was later than he expected and he knew his supervisor was going to chew him out. Especially since he had ignored the two calls. He could tell by the second message that he was in trouble.
Oh well
, he sighed.
It was worth it
.

As he stepped to the sidewalk, he pulled his keys from his pocket, thumbed the unlock button and climbed in. When he started the van, something in the rearview mirror caught his attention. He glanced in the back at the box. The heavy case that stored the canisters was at a slight angle. He frowned as he climbed between the seats to the back. He stared down at the box.
He hadn’t left it like that, had he?
Then he noticed the lock. It was broken.
Oh, shit!

As the train pulled into the station, Patty stood up and reached for her bag.

“Here, let me help you with that.”

She turned at the voice and smiled back at the handsome man standing next to her.

“Thank you,” she said.

The man grinned as he lifted her bag off the storage rack and placed it in the aisle. After he extended the retractable handle, he looked up and nodded once, not quite a bow.

“And here I thought chivalry was dead,” Patty said with a laugh.

“Not where I’m from,” he said, holding her gaze.

Where’s that?
she wanted to ask, but caught herself. She didn’t want him to misinterpret her gratitude as flirting. After all, she wasn’t.
Was she?

He grinned and she caught something in his eyes, a look that was intriguing.
Let it go
, she told herself.

“Well, thanks again,” she said with a smile as she reached for the handle of her bag.

“Enjoy your stay in Washington,” he said with another grin as he turned and, pulling his own bag, stepped out onto the platform.

She followed him off the train. He turned once and smiled at her again then she lost him in the crowd. As she followed the stream of passengers into the main concourse, she realized what it was that she had seen in his eyes: a look that said he found life amusing.

Terry Fogel stopped by the coffee shop and ordered a cup of tea. As he was paying, he saw the woman walk by. She was attractive. For a second he thought she had been flirting with him. But then something in her eyes had changed and he realized that the moment was gone.
Oh well
, he thought as his phone rang. He didn’t have time for that now. As he watched her disappear in the crowd, he answered.

A minute later, he hung up. He smiled. His contact had what he needed; more than enough really. But it would take some time—perhaps a month—to finalize plans and to assemble the device.

He thanked the bearded young man behind the counter as he was handed a cup of tea. Now would be a good time to send a message, he thought; something both to warn but also to create a diversion. It was a risky move, but what was life without a little risk?

He took a sip of tea.
Not like home
but not bad
. But then again, after all of these years, maybe he had just grown used to weak American tea. He took another sip as he watched the crowd streaming by. A woman, in the black full body cloak favored by some Muslims, passed by the coffee shop. Only her face was visible, the rest of her body hidden by the burqa. He watched as she walked past a police officer. The officer turned and followed her with his eyes until she disappeared in the crowd.
Perfect
, Fogel told himself. He took another sip and smiled. Life was just a game.

The man disconnected and dropped the cell phone into his pocket. He climbed out of the car and locked it. This was Brooklyn after all, and he wanted it to be there when he got back. Not that locks meant much to thieves these days. But he was prepared; he patted his side, feeling the reassuring bulge of the gun under his Consolidated Edison uniform. He walked up the block. At the end, he stepped into the store and was immediately assaulted by the strong odors. Specializing in Middle Eastern foods, books, movies, newspapers—the little things that made the transplanted Arabs that had taken over the surrounding neighborhoods feel a little closer to home—the store was busy.

He smiled as he took in the two aisles of shelves, seemingly randomly stocked with various cans, boxes, and jars. His dark skin didn’t fool those inside. He wasn’t one of them. He could feel the eyes on him as he walked up the first aisle, his hand on his chin. He stopped by the small refrigerator and looked inside. In the reflection in the glass door, he noticed that the two men playing backgammon at the small table in front had turned their attention back to their game. The man behind the counter though, he could see, was still watching him. He took a step to the side and was able to see more of the store. He heard the bell on the door and watched as two women, covered completely except for their faces, entered. They were followed by three children. He listened to the conversations, all in Arabic, and heard the usual topics: politics and food. He could speak fluent Arabic and could imitate several different dialects well enough to fool the locals. This skill had been learned over the years, first as a child, thanks to six years spent in Egypt, then Saudi Arabia, when his father’s company, an engineering firm, had sent him to work on hydroelectric projects. His later training had come courtesy of the foreign ministry. Other than listening, though, he had no plans on using his ability today. He turned and walked to the counter, a smile on his face. The clerk behind the counter stared blankly back at him, not quite hostile but certainly not friendly.

“Hi,” the man said, still smiling. Without seeming to, he studied the clerk’s face. This was the one, he concluded, the owner. “I was looking for the grape leaves?” he said hesitantly.

Without a word, the owner pointed to the shelf across from the refrigerator case.

The man turned and looked, his forehead creased as if unsure, then a second later, he turned back. He shook his head. “No, not the jar.” He held his hands up, as if holding a plate. “I’m looking for the stuffed grape leaves. You know, the dish? I forget what it’s called.”

The owner shook his head.

The man heard the bell again and turned, noticing three more men enter. They too regarded him warily as they walked over to the two men playing backgammon. He turned back to the owner.

“No?” He sighed. “Darn. My wife loves them.” He shrugged, offering another smile which wasn’t returned. “Do you know anyone who makes them?”

The owner shook his head once more.

“Oh,” the man said, deflated. “Thanks anyway.”

A minute later, he stood on the sidewalk and glanced up and down the block as if searching for something.
Where to hide it?
he wondered. Two more people passed him and entered the store. He turned and walked to the corner, then turned right and headed down the side street. There was a small lot behind the building. He glanced once behind him and, seeing no one, quickly ducked into the lot. The single car, a Honda minivan, was sitting in front of the rear door. Twenty seconds later he was inside. A quick glance at the registration confirmed that the minivan belonged to the store owner.

A minute later, he was walking back to his car. No one had seen him break in. No one had seen him hide the phone—his prints wiped clean—below the driver’s seat. He hid his smile as he climbed back into his car. He had just earned five thousand dollars.

With Special Agent Wendy Tillman at his shoulder, Matthew Richter scanned the crowd streaming through the main concourse of Union Station. He had considered asking his security detail to arrange for Patty to be driven to Washington—something they were authorized and would have been glad to do—but she had insisted on riding the train.

His schedule that day had been hectic, with meetings with the CIA, the NSA, and the other intelligence agencies lasting longer than he had expected. As usual, he and his team had regrouped after, to sort through what they had learned. No sooner had he taken his seat than Agent Tillman had interrupted his meeting, letting him know that Patty’s train would be on time.

So, with Agent Tillman and three other agents, he made the quick trip over to the station, while Jessica Williams, his top aide, managed the meeting.

When he saw Patty coming through the crowd, he knew he had made the right decision.